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Regular readers of the VENT will soon notice that I’ve gotten much smarter. Although admittedly the bar was set fairly low with such previous VENTs as “I’m Locked in my Car,” “W=Genius,” or “Dem Fractions is Hard!”

But now my intellectual prowess will be obvious. Let me give you some examples. First, I could count fairly high before. But I can count really, really high now. Also, if you ask me to define “existentialism,” I’ll say “no problem,”–or better yet, “no problemo” because everyone knows that “problemo” is much more sophisticated. You may never actually get that definition of existentialism, but my deft use of words such as “problemo” and “Okie-Dokie” will blow your mind.

Want more proof? OK. Do you remember those SAT word analogy questions? Well I can answer them now! For example, take the question “Joseph Stalin is to the Black Death as the Partridge Family is to ______ ??” Well I know the answer to that now (no problemo!). I think you see what I mean.

The genesis (big word! Ahhh!) of this change was the 3 weeks I just spent at a government-studies seminar at Harvard University (the Harvard you heard of, not that other one). Yes, it’s true. I was honored to stroll the same historic paths that John Adams strolled. I supped in the eateries where John Updike supped. I drank a bottle of cheap whiskey and passed out in a puddle of my own urine in the same alleys where George W. Bush drank cheap whiskey and passed out in a puddle of urine. It was heady stuff.

Over the next several VENTS I will share my experiences with you, my loyal reader. I don’t usually do multi-part VENTS, although my last series, “Shaving my Back, Parts 1-8” was surprisingly popular. However, I do think that both the depth of this particular experience, and my total lack of any other ideas merits a more lengthy exposition (another big word! And did you dig my use of the word “Supped”? I’m not even sure that’s a real word!)

Day 1 – The First Day

= I arrive on campus. I admire the ivy-covered walls. I learn it’s not really Ivy. It’s poison sumac. But somehow the school couldn’t sell parents on bragging that their kids were attending a “Sumac League” school. Many of the buildings have inspirational sayings carved over the doors, such as “Live, Learn, Prosper” (over the science library) or “Eat, Binge, Gluttonize” (over the local Sbarro). It reminded me of what my old Rabbi used to tell me to inspire me: “Daylin, the purpose of your life is to serve as a warning to others.”

= I review the curriculum. The first thing I notice is that there are none of the frivolous electives that were offered at my college, where I spent whole semesters studying “The History of Hack-e-Sack” or “The Roll of Fondue in the Civil War” (turns out it was limited). Of course, my college is no longer technically a college. It’s evolved into more of a bar and grill. Great nachos though!

Day 2 – The First Day no Longer

I show up to my first class, where we were supposed to be studying the roll of an elected representative. I was a little confused at first by the professor, who kept talking about “Avogadro’s Constant” and “Newton’s third law of motion.” It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I realized that I had messed up the directions and wound up in a physics class by mistake. I didn’t learn much about government, although I did manage to write an excellent paper on why a Black Hole would be a great place to send Ralph Nader.

At this point (or long ago) you might be wondering how I got into a very competitive Harvard program. Well, I knew how impressed admissions officers are by interesting extra-curricular activities. So when I filled out the application, I made sure to mention several things, including:

= My long-term marriage to chef Julia Child
= My years playing bass for The Clash in the 70’s
= The fact that I invented subtraction
= The Pulitzer Prize I won for my rebuttal of Einstein’s theory of
relativity, called “E=MC2 My Ass!”

When I arrived at the seminar, the admissions officer did seem slightly disappointed that I didn’t bring a copy of my book. He also seemed surprised that I didn’t really look like a full-blooded Mohican Indian.

Day 3 – A Different Day Entirely

Each day we had about 60-80 pages of reading to do prior to our classes. In college I was a slacker. I read the entire assignment for, like, the first week. By the second week, I was skimming. By the the second month I was just smearing the papers on my chest and chanting “Smile on me Gods of Osmosis.” This led to me often being unprepared and answering every question the professor would pose by wailing “Oh, the humanity!!” which worked Ok in History class, but not so much in “Botany” or “Human Sexuality.”

Finally, I arrived in the correct class and prepared to learn. I wondered if these Harvard Professors were all they were cracked up to be. I expected these avatars of brilliance to question and probe me. I hoped they were able to overlook how hot I am. I was not in the mood to be ogled like a piece of meat yet again. Although, I’ve gotten over that part and I am now, once again, prepared to be ogled like a piece of meat…preferably mutton.

I’ve never been a fast runner. In fact, do you remember how every elementary school has some kid who is so slow and pathetic that all the other kids beat him up. Well, in my school, that kid beat me up. Now he is an investment banker, married to a Sports Illustrated Swmisuit Model. While he still beats me, he now also gives me excellent stock tips!

As a result of my sloth-like running abilities I was teased constantly and called such cruel, heartless names as “slow-guy” or “guy-who-is slow” (it was a public high school). But as bad as I was at speed, distance was worse. In college the 100 yard dash became known as “Daylin’s Marathon.” I couldn’t run to the phone without someone playing the theme to Chariots of Fire.

I had one gym teacher who tried to help, but I just wasn’t motivated and I’d deviate from his workout routines. He’d tell me to do 100 sit ups before bed and I’d rent a “Prison Chicks” movie. He’d tell me to run a mile and I’d eat a bucket of macaroons. Once, to prove how slow I was, he challanged me to a 200 yard race. To make the point, he chained himself to a 5,000 pound concrete slab. I hope he expected someone other than me to set him free or he may still be there.

All of this makes it so incomprehensible that I completed the 10 mile Broad Street Run a couple of weeks ago. My training consisted of running through the streets of certain rural neighborhoods near the capital wearing a “Leave the Sheep Alone!” T-shirt. I thought being chased would motivate me to keep running.

On race day, I joined 14,000 other people at the starting line. I wound up near the front standing next to a guy from Kenya. My Swahili is a little rusty (although it wouldn’t have mattered since they don’t actually speak Swahili in Kenya) but I tried to say hello. Unfortunately, what I said apparently translated into my new friend’s native language not as “Hello,” but as “Your thighs are like tasty tulips.” After a few awkward moments involving mace, we were off.

I wanted to chat as I ran, but my Kenyan friend immediately started running far faster than me. My efforts to sprint to catch up weren’t very effective, nor were my shouts of “Hey, get back here!” Eventually I did find someone to run with. His name was Tommy:

Me
Do you run a lot Tommy?

Tommy
Hardly ever.

Me
Where ya from?

Tommy
The house right there behind me.

Me
Wow, That’s strange–me asking you where you
lived right as we run past your house. Is that a coincidence or what?

Tommy
Not really.

Me
How so?

Tommy
I’m not running. I’m just standing here waiting
for a bus.

Me
Oh Jeez. I better get going then.

Tommy
Great plan!

But I soon found my groove. By mile 4 I had stopped trying to hail a cab. By mile 5 I was whipping past traffic signs and fire hydrants left and right like they were standing still. At mile 7, I actually passed another racer. Although I must admit that he was in his nineties, and was probably slowed down by the fact that he was receiving CPR.

By mile 8 I hit the zone, or the “runners high,” which I had only felt once before, during a trip to Jamaica. And let’s just say that experience didn’t involve a lot of running, but did involve a 2 pound bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. By mile 9 I started having these giddy, utopian dreams of a perfect world.

Specifically, I dreamt:

….of a world where each day would be filled with love and sunshine and blue skies, except my old boss’ birthday, during which there would be a blizzard, because I hate him.

….of a world where our president could read “Hamlet;” at least the word, if not the whole play.

….of a world where Celine Dion was a mime, as God intended.

….of a world where no one gave anyone a fruitcake for Christmas, because who the %*&#@% wants that?

….of a world where every Starbucks also served Whiskey–cheap, 24 hours a day–to absolutely anybody.

….of a world where back-bench state legislators had scads of underwear-tossing groupies, and Mick Jagger had to go to the Shriner’s dinner and wear the funny hats.

….of a world where each year we could expect a new album, not just from Herb, but from Peaches too.

Finally, it was over. I didn’t win the race. It turns out my Kenyan friend did. In fact, by the time I crossed the finish line he had driven to the airport, flown back to Kenya, and overthrown the government in a violent Coup d’etat. But his band of rebels did call their movement the “Tasty Tulip-Thigh Revolution,” which I claim some credit for.

Now that I have accomplished this amazing feat, nothing can stop me. I am going to work to do all sorts of things I never could before. In fact, right now I’m in intensive training to pay a credit card bill on time. Wish me luck.

This is just a short Vent to plug something my dear friend and physical clone Linda Swain has coming up. She is performing on Channel 6 during the 4th of July Parade at 7:15-7:30 P.M. You see, Linda is a singer–unlike me, who has a bad voice; or Celine Dion, who has a voice like a thousand rabid monkeys trapped in a cement mixer. Maybe not everyone is familiar with that sound, but it’s not…well…it’s not a good one.

Linda wrote the new theme song for Philadelphia. It replaces the old theme song “My City Sucks” written in 1854 by Irving Berlin, almost 40 years before he was born! A lot of people don’t know it, but Linda originally asked me to give her some ideas for lyrics. On the first day she called me, I was tired and unmotivated. I suggested just singing “Philly – Yeah!” over and over again. When she hinted that she was looking for a slightly more sophisticated song, I e-mailed her a list of several ways in which Philadelphia leads the nation. However, Linda said she wanted to go in a different direction. Plus, she said, it’s hard to find words that rhyme with chlamydia.

I also suggested that we perform as a duet. I called her just last week about it:

Linda
Hello!

Me
Hey Linda!

Linda
Oh, it’s you Daylin. Look, I decided not to
wear pasties.

Me
No, No. I have a new idea. We should do a
duet.

Linda
You mean at the same time?

Me
Absolutely! We could do it one of several
ways. For example, while you’re singing
about how Philly stands for freedom, I could
be right behind you going “Don’t diss me or
I cut you.” You know, to give it that edge.

Linda
Um…I gotta go.

Me
If you don’t like that, we could just do
a little Sonny and Cher number that’s
Philly specific. You know, like:

“We got violence and we got hate,
We’ve got the highest murder rate
When the cops throw me in jail
I got you to make my bail!”

Linda
Listen, I really gotta take off. My hair’s on
fire, and the mailman’s here.

Please don’t feel that I am singling out Linda for special treatment. If anyone else has a major life event coming up, please let me know and this space is yours. Whether it’s a singing debut or a custody hearing, whether your wife is arranging a surprise party, or your friends are arranging an intervention, whether you are hosting a bake sale for your glee club, or a pig roast for NAMBLA, I will be happy to publicize it.

So watch Linda on Wednesday night. She is not only a great singer, but a beautiful woman. And although her breasts (ordered from Sharper Image) are still pending, the rest of her is completely natural. So good luck Linda, and remember, one of the best things to rhyme with “Soar” is my office phone number: (610)-668-7964. See if you can work it in.

People think bachelor parties are an American tradition, as American as apple pie, or racial profiling. However, as I understand it, bachelor parties are actually a worldwide tradition, with each culture adding its own unique stamp to the ritual. In America, there is the nudie bar. But in France there is a large picnic, and each man tells some heroic story about how they lost a battle against a much weaker country.

In Germany, the sound of frying knockwurst and goose-stepping fills the air. The Palestinians like to welcome the bachelor to marital bliss by holding him up in the air and cheering, then strapping several pounds of dynamite to his chest and having him blow up a school bus (the groomsmen all chip in for the dynamite). Palestinian women are troubled by their future husband being splattered all over the ground, but grateful that he wasn’t exposed to any naked women. In perhaps the most elaborate bachelor party ritual, the young men of Bator gather their friends together, then run off and have sex with hundreds of other women for 60 years or so, then die of old age.

This weekend I partook in the American version of this ritual. My cousin Sefton is soon to pledge his troth (I’m not actually sure what a “troth” is, but I think its related to his 401k) to the stunning Ms. Amy Leavitt. As the best man, I originally came up with the itinerary for the day. As I originally conceived it, the day would start with some “Sweatin to the Oldies” with Richard Simmons. Then we would shop for muffs (they’re cheap this time of year!), take in a Barbara Streisand Tribute Show, and finally, all bake muffins. However, after some feedback from the other guys (including death threats), we changed things around a bit.

First we went to a Mets game. I haven’t been to a baseball game in a while, but I soon realized that there are some things more exciting than baseball, like counting your teeth for example, or watching a tape of “Battlefield Earth” which is stuck on “pause.” By the second inning, people were hoping for a home run; by the third, for a meteor. In the bottom of the fifth, two umpires hung themselves after Red Sox third string catcher Pepito Laroca fouled off 177 consecutive pitches. When the seventh inning stretch came, I couldn’t stand because my buttocks had turned to coal. Finally the Mets won in the 12th after the entire Red Sox infield had set themselves on fire and Tito O’Reily bunted for an inside-the-park home run.

After the game, all 25 party invitees met up at Tuscan’s steak house for dinner. The food was great, and the toasts were amusing. However, Amy’s father was there, and we were given strict instructions by Sefton to avoid, at all costs, the following topics:

* Drug use of any kind by anybody

* Previous girlfriends (inflatable and non-inflatable)

* Cross-Gender “mistakes”

* Bar Mitzvah Sex

* Other guys named “Sefton” who may have been arrested for public nudity

After dinner, we went to the obligatory strip club. It was called “Tens” ostensibly because every woman working there was a “10.” And the women were strikingly gorgeous (if you like that sort of thing). However, I think the club was actually named “Tens” because of what you were expected to tip every person you encountered all evening. When we first arrived, we were greeted by Tim, a large, muscular man in a tuxedo. He explained he was the “exterior door man” and that he accepted tips. When we tipped Tim and entered the club we met Harvey. He was apparently the “interior door man” and was also kind enough to accept tips.

Harvey then handed us off to Otis, who was our host. Up until last night, I was unaware of what a host at a strip club does. But now I know that he points in the general direction of a bunch of tables, some of which have empty seats you can sit at if you wish. For this, Otis requires what he called “a special tip.”

Soon a waitress arrived. She was wearing a sequined G string and two seashells on her chest (just like Mom used to wear), and explained that if we would be kind enough to tip her, she would be kind enough to take our drink order. I asked if we could tip her when she brought the drinks. She explained patiently that another person would actually be bringing the drinks. That would be our “server,” and she likes “GIMONDO Tips.” I ordered a screwdriver and turned over the required $10 to ensure the bartender would actually put Vodka into it. I then went to the bathroom, outside of which I encountered Phil. We chatted briefly:

Phil
Hi. I’m Phil

Me
Hi Phil.

Phil
I accept tips.

Me
I thought you might. What is it you do?

Phil
I’m the tornado warner.

Me
The tornado warner?

Phil
I warn people going into the men’s room
if a tornado is coming.

Me
Is that a big problem here?

Phil
Not so far.

Me
What about people going into the ladies room?
Do they get warned too?

Phil
Oh sure, Todd does that. He takes tips too.

Me
I thought he might.

Of course none of this counts the actual strippers. Whenever Jasmine, Cocoa, Lolita, Puka-Puka or Clitoris (it’s amazing how all the women with exotic names wind up working for strip clubs) came near you, you had to tip them to sit, to dance, to stop dancing, to leave, and to never tell you about their plans for medical school again.

Finally, after I had run out of cash, and actually given Puka-Puka my gold card, I was forced to leave. I ran into a drunk guy walking down the street outside. He threw up on my shoes. I tipped him. But don’t let my cynical ramblings fool you. I was thrilled and proud to have been part of Sefton’s (my brother by another mother!!) big bash. And I can always bake muffins myself.

Like Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees, I am a women’s man. Ergo, I have no time to talk. And like Pee Wee Herman, I am a sole practitioner (of the law in my case), and thus, I have no time to take vacations. When a lawyer on his own is away for a week or two, he returns to hundreds of angry phone messages (or so I’m told by lawyers who have clients). “Why aren’t you in?”, “Why aren’t you working on my case?”, “Why don’t your clothes match?”, “Do you want to renew your subscription to “Barely Legal”?”, etc. I’m sure every lawyer knows what I am talking about.

Even when you actually go, there is the inevitable pressure to make your vacation meaningful. How can I justify splaying my ass on a beach when I could be studying the migratory patterns of ancient aquatic birds? When I got two brochures, one that says “Learn the Secrets of the Tundra” and another that says “Learn the Secrets of Underage Asian Hookers,” you wouldn’t believe the pressure I got to head up to ice country.

Once you find the time, and a vacation with sufficient gravitas, there is still the issue of affordability. It doesn’t take long to discover that a month in Greece or a cruise around the world is prohibitively expensive. So you scale back, and go back up to the Lehigh Valley for yet another tour of “Cement Country,” or load the family in the car for your fifth trip to the Dallas, Pennsylvania Prison for Sexual Predators (they do give away cool hats, complete with a picture of your very own sexual predator on the visor).

Even once the cost has been dealt with, there are many other issues to resolve. There is distance: Upper Darby doesn’t really feel like getting away. Neptune is cool, but it’s way far. You also want to avoid areas of major unrest. There is an excellent ska band in Macedonia, and the antiquing is terrific on the Gaza Strip, but is it really worth it? Finally, you want a new experience, but you still want to feel culturally comfortable. If you go to a place with unfamiliar food, or where they will shrink your head and put it on a tiki lamp, you may feel out of your element.

As for me, I think there are 10 things which must be considered essential for a great vacation. These are:

1. Good Accommodations – It may be easy to romanticize sleeping in a teepee, braving the elements and mixing with the dung beetles, but trust me, having a cozy bed and a third-world type who cleans your room and you can call “Consuela” (regardless of her real name) goes a long way towards helping you forget any pending disbarment proceedings back home. If…that’s…ya know…what you’re thinking about.

2. A Fake Name – Daylin Leach didn’t trash his hotel room, Dutch Laroo did. Daylin Leach didn’t try to make out with the mayor, Dutch Laroo did. Daylin Leach didn’t run up Daylin Leach’s credit cards, Dutch Laroo did. I think you see where I’m going with this.

3. A Telescope – You never know who will be undressing in the room next door. It may be sick and psychopathic to watch, but you can worry about that after the shade goes down.

4. Bail Money – ‘Nuff said

5. A Large Vibrating Egg – More than ’nuff said.

6. A Series of Good Excuses – You don’t want to be the local huskow being interrogated about what happened to the goat with nothing to say. You want to have your excuses prearranged and ready to go. A few examples:

– We do that to Goats all the time in my country.

– Oh, I misheard the tour guide when he said “Chuck the Coat.”

– It wasn’t me, it was Dutch Laroo.

7. Your Own Stash of Food – When visiting some local, you never know what bizarre local dish they may serve up. So when they whip out the termite fondue, you can say, “Hey, Mumbowondungolimboboboo, how ’bout microwaving me some Tator Tots?” Mumbowondungolimboboboo will understand.

8. Lots of Air Supply CDs – Foreigners love their Air Supply, particularly the early, “edgy” years. You can trade these CDs for valuable things, like carpets, or the lives of family members.

9. Vocabulary Flash Cards – It’s important to be able to communicate. Learn a few simple phrases and put them on Flash Cards so you can say the essential things in a hurry. Things like: “Where is the Bathroom?” “Is your sister really 12?” and “How many Air Supply CDs for you not to cook my nephew?”

10. A Ticket Home – The most important item. You don’t want to be, say, in London, and gamble away your last Shekel (or whatever the hell it is they call currency there) and be stuck eating bread pudding in the rain the rest of your life. Remember, the point of a vacation is to remind you how much you like your real life.

We’ve once again entered the season of commencement addresses. Colleges and universities throughout the land are bestowing honorary degrees on everyone from Stephen Hawking (Harvard) to Sammy “The Bull” Gravano (Princeton). With each degree comes an inspirational address to the young generation.

This year Nelson Mandela (Brown) spoke of overcoming adversity. Pat Buchanan (Notre Dame) spoke about creating adversity for others to overcome. Robert McNamara (Columbia) talked about the lessons of Viet Nam, while Ron Popeil (George Washington Carver Telemarketing Institute) gave a fabulous oration on the role of beef dehydrators in US domestic policy.

There were several unusual speeches. Actress Parker Posy (MIT) gave a speech on “New Theories of Molecular Structure” entirely in the character of Wilma Flinstone. George W. Bush (Yale) accidentally picked up a copy of “Jack LaLane’s Autobiography” instead of the speech which was written for him. He then spoke for 45 minutes on the importance of jumping jacks. It wasn’t until he began demonstrating the proper way to do a squat thrust that the secret service intervened.

I myself have never been invited to give a commencement address. Although I did get feelers from my old alma mater Temple, who sent me the following letter.

Dear Daylin:

We want to be clear. We don’t want you to speak at commencement.
We don’t want you to be at commencement. We don’t even like when you say commencement for fear you are somehow referring to ours. Best of luck, and don’t tell people you went here.
TEMPLE UNIVERSITY (and everyone in it)
PS: Give generously at endowment time!!

I’m optimistic that their coyness will end next year. In any event, if I were asked to give a commencement address, to inspire a young generation to new levels of…uh…inspiredness, then I would probably say the following:

2001 Commencement Address
By Daylin B. Leach
With help from Roget’s Thesaurus with the big words

Good afternoon graduates. On this fateful day, there are some things you should know.

Stop listening to the Backstreet Boys. They suck.

When a large man with a sickle says, “Get the Hell off my FOOT!!” he often means it.

Very few women are impressed by a guy who makes them pay for dinner on the first date. Find those women, and date them.

It’s possible for one man to change the world. But obviously it’s easier for one man to hang out by the pool, eat fratatas, and complain about Mexicans.

Don’t become obsessed about how much money you have. Become obsessed about how much money your friends have.

I have found it rewarding to take time to do things for others. If Britney Spears needs a back rub, I’ll give it to her. If Britney needs a big ol’ spanking, I’m there. You get the idea.

Courage is rare. And that’s true for a reason. No one ever regretted saying, “Whoa, I’m getting the hell outta here!!”

As for your career, all I can say is do what you love to do. Unless you love moving refrigerators. Then do something else. Don’t be an idiot.

It’s important to keep a positive attitude. Unless you’re in prison. Then it’s more important to keep your drawers up during rec time. A positive attitude is second.

You have been given a fine education here at Raccoon County Community College (I am being realistic about who is going to invite me). Make sure you use it for good. Like Satellite TV Installation for example. Satellite TV is good.

Finally, remember: There is no limit to what you can become. In support of this point, I make just one argument: George W Bush. There…I rest my case. If he can become President of the United States, then there is no reason that the dumbest of you can’t become Absolute Omnipotent Dictator of the Universe. There is no reason why the most lox infested Jewish guy can’t become the next Pontiff, or the one after that, or both. Just because you are graduating from a school whose minimum SAT score for admission is “an integer,” and whose sole professor has a Ph.D. in “Lion Taming,” doesn’t mean you can’t have it all.

I hope you have all found this appropriately inspirational. I will be at the reception if any of you would like to discuss this further. If however you approach me, and I have a cheese cube in my mouth, that’s your cue to back off and take 5 til the tray is empty. Now go out and take on the world! And stay the hell away from my car!!

This Saturday marks the big 4-0. It was 40 years ago Saturday that my mother first said, “Are you sure there’s been no mistake” and “I’ll sue!” Everyone keeps telling me how significant this is. But I just don’t feel it. While I may be forty chronologically, I am still seventeen intellectually, and barely bar mitzvah age emotionally. My Wardrobe still consists mainly of “Zeppelin Rules!!” T-shirts which glow in black light, and to this day my favorite food is still Fruity Pebbles, although now I like to eat them while watching “Funky Teen Booty 4” on the Spice Channel.

Regardless of how I feel, 40 is a good time to look at where you’ve been, and where you’re going. When I was a teenager, I wrote a list of 20 things I wanted to accomplish in life. Here is that list, with a progress report.

GOAL
PROGRESS

1. Have Sex
Check

2. Have Sex with another person
Took longer, but check.

3. Have Sex with another person for free
Debatable

4. Live to see an utter moron become President
Check

5. Win Wimbledon
Not yet, but drop shot improving

6. Have long and lucrative career as soap opera star “Charge Lucas.”
This did not happen, but I did manage to get some gigs as the “before” guy in several plastic surgery commercials.

7. Learn Karate and kick neighborhood bully “Spike McGinchy’s” ass.
Several years after I wrote this goal, Spike stepped on a poisonous sea urchin in Australia, and lost the use of his arms and legs. At that point I realized that learning karate and kicking his ass was silly and pointless, so I just went to his hospital bed and kicked his ass without the karate.

8. Run a Marathon
Check….well…not all at once.

9. Memorize “Moby Dick”
Check. I also memorized the titles of several other books.

10. Learn to think positively
I was going to do this, but then I thought, “What the hell good will that do me?”

16. Replace “narcissistic” with “Daylinistic” as the psychological word for “Self-involved.”
Getting there

17. Replace “Adonis” with “Daylin” as the archetype of the perfect body.
Uh…not quite there yet

18. Make it OK for guys to wear pink taffeta
Hey, if you’ve got a hang-up, that’s your problem

19. Use Colin Powell’s name in a pun
What do you get when you sit on a scud missile? Colon…POW!!!

20. Go to law school Well, I do have a law degree, but I didn’t actually go to law school, in the sense that “Nick’s Law School” didn’t actually require attendance. It mostly just required writing a check made out to Nick.

As you can see, I’ve reached most of my goals. This only encourages me to set new goals for the next 40 years. I’m not sure what they’ll be, but I’m sure they’ll offer each of you an opportunity to use your own unique talents, connections, and credit card numbers to help me succeed. I’ll keep you posted.